


You're stupid just like your smartphone

by crookedspoon



Series: Escaped Words [6]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Boys Kissing, Drinking Games, Eurovision Song Contest 2018, M/M, Rovinsky Week, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: There are many things Ronan thinks Kavinsky and his crew are capable of. Enjoying the Eurovision Song Contest, however, would not have made the list before tonight.





	You're stupid just like your smartphone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elvamire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvamire/gifts).



> For Day 3 "Parties" at rovinskyweek 2018 and "Syrupy" at gywo's Yahtzee.
> 
> I've been blocked a lot lately, but I wanted to get this out while the ESC was still fresh in everyone's minds. (Those who watched it and those who were annoyed by their exploding social media feeds.) So this is the best I can do. Silly things have an easier time slipping past my block.
> 
> Thanks again, Elva, for encouraging me to write for the Rovinsky week although it's over!

As Ronan pulls up around the corner – never close to the mansion – and his music shuts off with the engine, the comparative silence jolts his senses awake. He'd expected the neighborhood to pick up the beat where it left off, but the closest thing he can hear is a dog barking three houses down the street.

Kavinsky's text said to come over, he'd be having a party at his place, but from the sounds of it, it appears to be a slumber party. Ronan tucks the six packs he's bought for the occasion under his arm before slamming the car door shut and wonders why he should even bother lugging them over if Kavinsky is intent on being a snooze. 

An array of cars is parked haphazardly in the driveway, so at least Kavinsky wasn't lying. His inner circle is here for the party, or _a_ party. Unless they all hitched a ride somewhere else.

Ronan associates a quiet mansion with a Kavinsky so depressed he can barely pick his stupid ass off the floor. A pity party is not Ronan's idea of a good time and he's not sure he can deal with that tonight. He'd wanted a race for a reason.

Thankfully, there's noise coming from the basement, which alleviates some of his worries as to Kavinsky's current state of mind. If he can stand other people, it shouldn't be that bad.

Not that it can't be a different kind of bad.

Which it turns out to be.

"Lynch!" Kavinsky greets him, jumping out of his theater seat when he sees Ronan enter the basement. Three other figures are hunching in the rows, illuminated by the big screen in front of them. "So glad you could make it. Come on in."

Kavinsky practically yanks him inside and at least one of the figures at his back shushes him.

Ronan is still apprehensive around K's buddies, no matter that their relationship is probably no secret among them. But Ronan has been keeping secrets for all his life and the idea of not having to is a strange one. He'll likely never get used to it.

Kavinsky is the same. He plays with his secrets, giving you just enough information to be in on them if you listen closely, but otherwise remains an enigma. Perhaps it's his openness about his secrets that creates the impression.

"I've got you something," Kavinsky says and walks over to the table laden with snacks and refreshments. Ronan expects something naughty, something with a double entendre only they would get; he doesn't expect the Irish flag Kavinsky slips between his thumb and the six pack he's carrying. It's only then that he realizes the stripes on Kavinsky's cheeks are meant to represent the Bulgarian flag.

"It's only Slovenia, no need to rush them so," Skov says and elbows Swan. A Danish flag is decorating his cheek.

"You missed the fiery pianist, though," Prokopenko adds, wearing the Hungarian colors.

"What the fuck is happening?" Ronan asks, as he lets Kavinsky shove him towards one of the seats.

He turns to the screen even as he's stumbling forward and what he sees there confuses him more than anything. A woman is singing on stage with a couple of a couple of backup dancers. Both the woman and the backup dancers are wearing too much to make much sense on Kavinsky's screen.

"This counts as a clappy bit, right?" Skov asks as the woman addresses the audience and invites them to sing along. He takes a swig from his beer without waiting for an answer.

"Didn't he tell you?" Swan turns to Ronan and waves his UK flag. "We're watching the Eurovision Song Contest."

Ronan stops in his tracks. Kavinsky bumps into him, unable to move past. "What?"

"What do you mean 'what'?" Skov demands. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the ESC."

Ronan has a vague idea, but it's nothing he'd ever have associated with any of these assholes.

"Stop gawking and sit down already," Swan says.

"Watch and learn," Kavinsky grins as he climbs over the seats to plunk down next to Prokopenko. He drags Ronan down next to him. As confused as Ronan is, it seems like he has no choice but to stay and witness the strangeness. For the moment at least.

This is not a party he'd ever have expected Kavinsky to have. It's not loud, it's not disorderly, and it's not even his choice of music. Not to mention that they're too few people for what Kavinsky would ordinarily call a party.

"Where's Jiang?" Ronan asks.

"I don't know," Kavinsky sniggers. "He hates all this European song bullshit, but I suspect he's just having his lady cramps about it because there's not a country he has any excuse to root for."

"That's just Jiang, the old spoilsport," Swan says. "Even rooting _against_ us is no fun for him. What can you do?"

"Ugh, ballad again," Skov whines. "What is this, the second ballad in, like, four songs? Do I need to make a spreadsheet again?"

"There ought to be a square that says 'ballad' on these bingo cards," Swan says, looking at his phone.

"I'd say it's covered under 'Song about love'," Proko says around the straw in his mouth, looking at the squares on his own phone.

"Bingo cards?" Ronan asks. "What are you, geezers?"

"It's a drinking game, asshat," Kavinsky says.

"Like you need a reason to drink."

"True, but I'll never pass up an excuse to do it. Anyway, it makes you pay attention to the important things."

"Which are?"

"Glitter!" Skov says and throws a handful of popcorn into the air. One of the popped kernels lands in Kavinsky's jack and coke.

"Watch it, asshole," Kavinsky reaches across Proko to thump Skov on the chest. "Guess who has to clean all that up in the morning."

"Your cleaning lady?"

"You're absolutely right," Kavinsky snorts. "And I'll never hear the end of it."

"Shut up, I like this song," Swan admonishes them both.

"It's catchy," Skov agrees, happy to get away from Kavinsky's abuse. "Pretty sure Austria has a good chance of winning tonight."

Ronan thinks he might have tripped into an alternate universe, because never in a million years would he have been able to imagine these trash heads to discuss the merits of music.

There's much grumbling about the presenters and the awkward "green room" bits, and many comments on the staging of the songs. Skov proves to be the chattiest of the lot. 

"So like, I'm not into the whole opera thing, but that dress is amazing."

"Violin dude is back!"

Ronan doesn't agree with his guideline to writing songs, but he's not about to mention that. 

During the next ballad, Skov throws his cell phone at Ronan and says, "Watch this instead."

His phone is playing a video entitled "Love Love Peace Peace" and as far as Ronan can tell, it's... very meta. About how to win the Contest, or something. It's as strange as this whole evening.

"Love love peace peace, and a burning fake piano," Skov sings under his breath, before Swan elbows him again.

"I'll tape your mouth shut if you don't quit it."

"You watched the semis, you already know what your Brexit queen sounds like."

There's a brief moment of "Woah, what just happened" when a rando appears next to the UK's singer and takes her microphone away to blather some unintelligible bullshit.

"You think they're gonna give her sympathy points now?" Skov asks.

"Any points she gets will be well-deserved," Swan says prissily.

"Come on, you just know the other countries are going to punish the UK for leaving the EU by not giving them any points."

"That's petty."

"That's how it is."

As if hearing the guys make political comments wasn't enough, the night just gets weirder as it progresses. For one, Kavinsky appears to be very engrossed in the show, for another, he has linked his pinkie finger with Ronan's. That's as close to holding hands as they get.

"Okay, I have no idea what's going on, but I dig it."

Ronan reluctantly agrees, if only to himself and only about the almost-hand-holding bit.

"Another ballad," Skov groans, when Germany is onstage.

"I kinda like it, though," Proko joins in.

"It's okay. For a ballad," Skov says, as if he were the authority on such matters.

Beer makes the rounds and booze is being downed with every glitter canon, every smoke or wind machine, and every nautical reference. After Skov has accepted his phone back from Ronan, he's dividing his time between chatting, retweeting memes, and looking at the screen.

"France is being a snoozefest again."

"Damn, I did not expect these acrobatics," he says, jamming out to the Czech Republic.

Swan has given up elbowing by that time, perhaps too drunk to bother.

"Vikings!" Skov yells when the next act arrives and waves his Denmark flag wildly.

When Australia suddenly shows up, Ronan is confused. He thought this was the _European_ Song Contest. He hasn't heard about Europe annexing Australia, but then again, when he's not skipping Geography he's sleeping through it.

Ronan is annoyed at himself for even caring about that, however briefly.

Kavinsky, however, makes him forget all about that.

By the time Finland is singing, Kavinsky is drunk enough to nip at Ronan's ear and his jaw. Ronan's heart trips in his chest. If he turns his head just slightly, his lips will brush Kavinsky's and God, he wants to kiss him so bad, but he also doesn't really want an audience.

Kavinsky doesn't care. By the end of the song, he has nearly climbed out of his seat and into Ronan's lap.

"Hey, K," Skov slaps the back of Kavinsky's jeans, where his Bulgarian flag is poking out of his pocket. "Do you really wanna miss the Bulgarian entry in favor of snogging your boyfriend silly?"

Ronan's heart skips a beat at the word 'boyfriend'.

"Yup," is all K says before he slips his tongue inside Ronan's mouth and Ronan thinks he needs to have his heart checked out soon.

From the edge of his vision, Ronan sees Skov and Swan shrug elaborately. Proko just eyes them warily. Ronan has never been able to figure out if Proko is jealous of him or if this is about something else.

Not that it matters when K's hands rub over Ronan's chest and shoulders and over his hair. It sends sparks shooting through his entire body.

"Okay," Skov says, "but you definitely want to watch Moldova now. That's Eurovision at its finest."

But Kavinsky doesn't let go, so all Ronan can see is flashes of red, blue and yellow in front of a canvas of white.

There's screaming, there's clucking, and there's country music, but Ronan doesn't care. Doesn't care even when Skov says something about watching the sequel to Ireland's dancers played out next to him. The moment is too perfect, but over too quickly.

It seems the word "Ireland" is what gets Kavinsky to back off. 

"Maybe you wanted to watch that," he says and wipes his lips

Ronan didn't, and even if he'd wanted to, he certainly wouldn't be able to concentrate on it after the spin cycle Kavinsky's tongue just put him through.

Kavinsky grabs Proko's drink and downs it in one gulp.

"Cyprus is the total package, though," he says and throws the cup back into Proko's lap.

Proko and Ronan both glare at him.

"I like her outfit," Proko says, voice thin.

"Course you do," Kavinsky says and pats Proko's knee, while he continues leering at the screen and the lady in the glittery flame outfit.

Something nasty and dark is roiling in Ronan's chest, exacerbated by Kavinsky's phantom touches he can still feel on his chest and shoulders. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, and it makes Ronan want to pull Kavinsky back into his lap, to kiss him, to bite him, to _mark_ him as Ronan's.

Ronan will never know if Kavinsky is that good at reading the room or if his actions are just serendipitous. Once the song is over, he grabs Ronan's hand and pulls him out of his seat.

"Don't you wanna watch the rest of the show?" Swan asks as K wobbles past them with Ronan in tow.

"Seen all I need to see, don't care about the results," K says.

"Don't care about the results—!" Skov is appalled. "The voting is the best bit."

"You're welcome to stay and wait for it. I won't."

With that, he drags Ronan through one of the white doors in the basement, and entering the main house is like stepping out of Wonderland. Everything looks so ordinary compared to the bizarre spectacle he's been subjected to for the past who-knows-how-many hours. Feels like fifty.

The door has barely clicked shut behind them when Kavinsky is crowding Ronan back against it.

"Thought we were going to your room," Ronan says in between kisses. _Thought you were going to make me forget why I was ever jealous in the first place._

"You wanna go up all those stairs before getting your hands all over me?" Kavinsky asks, voice thick like toffee, and guides Ronan's hands to his ass.

"Yes." He doesn't _want_ to, but he'd rather not risk anyone walking in on them.

"Chickenshit," Kavinsky huffs. "They won't come spy on us if that's what you're worried about. Show's not over until another hour."

Ronan shrugs, picks Kavinsky up and throws him over his shoulder before this becomes a drawn-out argument that doesn't get them any farther away from the basement. If the stairs are a problem for him, he shouldn't be able to complain about Ronan carrying him to his room.

Kavinsky only makes a show of fighting him. Mostly he's busy laughing drunkenly and trying not to fall off. It takes a bit of shuffling their combined weight, but he eventually makes it to K's room, where he drops him unceremoniously onto the bed.

There's something satisfying about throwing Kavinsky down and climbing on top of him that pleases a primal part of Ronan.

"Wasn't so bad, was it?" K asks as he hooks his arms around Ronan's neck and kisses him again. "You didn't flee halfway through."

"Had expected a different sort of party."

"It won't kill you to admit it was fun, you know."

It may not, but that doesn't mean Ronan has to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. He is content to just keep kissing Kavinsky until he stops needling him about it.

Kavinsky, for once, is content to just be kissed. Probably thinks that answers all his questions. Let him. As long as Ronan doesn't have to admit that the evening was tolerable, he's fine with leaving Kavinsky to his misconceptions.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Toy" by Netta, but you knew that already.
> 
> [Here's a recap](https://youtu.be/O-g5UAE-tmA) of the songs played in the final. And [here's Love Love Peace Peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMgW54HBOS0). Reblog on [tumblr](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/173892448390/fic-parties-trc-rovinsky-t).


End file.
